the kid who at the time would be my best friend, later my boyfriend, and soon after my abuser. Freshman year, After a breakup with his first girlfriend I found myself talking to him alot more than i had in

We talk in English class about the concept of “Perception vs. Reality” and how literature demonstrates this universal truth. I wonder if anybody knows anyone at all as I think back to the word “Ethical” printed in the yearbook

I was 14, going into Sophomore year. He was 17 and a senior with a cool car, a perfect transcript, and a sports and voice state title. He was smooth talking and charming and sweet and cute and polite and

I never thought rape would happen to me, I always saw rape stories on tv or the Internet. Most of them would be of guy raped girl, or stranger raped unconscious being. It was always someone they didn’t know or

My story. 14 months later.
I think every rape victim at some point tells themselves "maybe I asked for this", "maybe I did deserve this", "I could've fought harder", "did I lead him on?"
Well, I do at least…

I guess I'm still confused on if it was rape or not. I don't want to say this was rape because there are people out there who raped by others who physically hurt them and forced themselves on them. I don't consider myself a true victim of rape because I'm not a survivor.. there were moments I was scared of what the guy would do but I didn't cry out fear or have to scream for help.

I took a shower, wanting to get rid of the evidence of the day. I knew I should call the police, but after going through filing charges as a kid against an adult who molested me, I knew what the process was like and I didn't want to go through it again.

Here I am at 2 in the morning struggling to find rest. Tears escaping my eyes and making their way down my cheeks. All the while I am thinking I bet he is sleeping soundly like a child. This irritates me to no end. I decide to get up and write this because I cant think of any other way to get this pain and feeling of violation out of my head and entire being.

You have to fight to find yourself again, or you get pulled under by the grief, the fear, the guilt and all the rest of it. You have to find some kind of silver lining, however small, and pull yourself back up. As long as you pick yourself back up each time it overwhelms you, you are winning. It's ok to be overwhelmed sometimes, to need help; just keep getting back up!

The only thing colder than the temperature outside was the look in his eyes as he saw through who I was into what I was going to be for him. I knew what he had planned when our path skewed away from the gate to the tables. I tried to tell him I needed to go home and that it was too cold "maybe another time". Without a word I was bent over, facing away from him. With a fist full of my hair in one hand he brought his other down on me as if I had committed a crime worth being punished for.

Even as I'm typing this, I'm terrified that I'm lying, that what happened was consensual. Because I fucking said yes. But you know what? Yes doesn't always mean yes. A mentally unstable, near-suicidal, Autistic sixteen year old girl cannot consent to sex with a mentally stable nineteen year old boy. Hell, that girl can't consent to sex with anyone. But it wasn't her fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

He was my boyfriend. We had a lot of sex—but usually at his parents’ because mine forbade us to in their house. I’d invited him over and since we weren’t allowed in my bedroom, we decided to watch a movie

But when it actually happened… I froze. I was afraid to move. I wish so badly that I could go back in time and tell that guy to get the hell out of my room. Why didn't l do something? I hate myself for it still.

So he would say again, “Nobody wants you. You don’t have friends. You don’t need friends, only me.” And it would start over and over again. Being locked all day in a dark room, naked, forced to have sex until my skin was raw, until I was bleeding and hurting, until there was only a fine line between pleasure and pain so that I could tell myself, “It’s not so bad.”

I was blamed by people who told me that if you get naked with a guy you should expect them to have sex you. I was also told that as I liked him and I dated him although he forced himself on me it didn't count as rape.

I was closest to my Grandmother. We didn’t talk much, but I never felt the need to always talk with her. I was comfortable with her, and thinking back now I think she was the only person I was truly comfortable with. I trusted her. It was my Grandmother who realized something else was going on. I was pregnant. I may, or may not have fallen down the stairs, but one thing is for sure. I was raped. We didn’t discuss it.

So I immediately got off of him and said I didn't want to have sex. I'm pretty sure I even apologized. I said it multiple times because he incessantly argued with me. Something about that I HAD to let him. I had to let him finish. I couldn't be a tease. I kept saying no! I can't. I don't want to. No. Sorry. No. The more he argued the more afraid I felt, and the more rapidly I started fading. Then I told him that I really needed to sleep. I was about to pass out I physically can't. No. In my mind I reasoned that it all would be over then. When I passed out he'd realize it wasn't happening and he'd leave.

The commonalities I have with the other brave women who have come forward are what made me realize how wrong it all was. Reading the stories was like having my mind read. I sunk deeper with feelings of guilt and disgust. I was part of an intricate web woven by a man who was manipulative and powerful. I fell for every carefully constructed, tried and true line he fed me. He played his game with me as he played it with so many women before me. I was another woman to add to his collection.

This is my story –of a 13-year-old victim who reported to the police in 1956. Ancient history? Perhaps, but it may give some insight into why victims don't report and the surreal experience of doing so. That said, I firmly believe that victims should speak out and identify themselves. It is not their shame! Not publishing names "in order to protect the victim" implies that somehow it is the victim's shame. Rapists are the ones who deserve to be identified and shamed.

Life went on as normal, everyone pretended that everything was fine and that nothing had happened. No one but a few close friends that I had finally confided in knew what had happened. But that kind of secret, festers and boils below the surface until one day the cracks start to appear.

The When You're Ready Project is a community for survivors of sexual violence to share their stories and have their voices heard, finding strength in one another. When you're ready to share your story, we will be here.